


Catatonic Sex Toy

by Tipsy_Kitty



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bondage, Dehumanization, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5811253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsy_Kitty/pseuds/Tipsy_Kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky raid a HYDRA base. Rumlow gets the upper hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catatonic Sex Toy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [prompt](http://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/1634.html?thread=3476578#cmt3476578) from the hydratrashmeme. Title from Interpol's "Stella Was a Diver and She Was Always Down."

The facility is not as deserted as their intel had apparently led them to believe, so far as Rumlow can tell. At any rate, the Captain's annoying comrades haven’t been spotted within a couple hundred miles of the abandoned factory, one of Hydra’s few remaining European strongholds.

It’s just the two of them.

Rumlow watches over the closed circuit cameras as Cap and the soldier fight off the first seven guards easily, hurling that blasted shield back and forth to each other along the narrow corridor; he watches as it ricochets off walls and crashes into soft flesh with a satisfyingly pulpy sound. But when another agent appears at the end of the hall wearing a gas mask and lobbing a hissing canister at them, when he watches them collapse hard against the unforgiving asbestos tiled floor, overcome by noxious fumes, Rumlow knows he’s won.

 

“Buck?” Rogers calls out hoarsely. “You there?”

“Steve?” the soldier answers, sounding foggy and far away. Rogers turns to the sound of the soldier’s voice, his eyes widening at the sight of the soldier slumped against the wall, pinned in place by its prosthesis to a magnetic clamp screwed into the wall over its head.

Rogers redoubles his own efforts to escape, but he has been thoroughly strapped down to the rusting, abandoned examination table, straps crossing his thighs and chest and neck, his arms fixed into place by sturdy metal gauntlets that give no quarter.

Metal gauntlets that had been constructed to hold the Winter Soldier in place for maintenance, in point of fact.

And when the Captain glances down and realizes that he’s naked...Rumlow smirks at the Captain’s complete and total debasement.

“Captain Rogers,” Rumlow says, stepping out from the shadows, and Rogers twitches, recognizing a voice he’d never expected to hear again.

“We dropped a building on you,” Rogers says through gritted teeth. “How are you even alive?”

“Miracle of science,” Rumlow says with a humorless smile. “You know how _that_ goes. Anyway, thanks for retrieving the asset for us, Cap. HYDRA is in your debt.”

"He's not an asset," Rogers snaps. "He's a person."

"Mostly," the soldier agrees, flexing its metal fingers and faking bluster and bravado for the Captain’s sake. Rumlow had always admired that, how the soldier would stare down any threat in a crowd...until Pierce snapped his fingers and brought the soldier to heel. The soldier looks up at Rumlow, chin set with stubborn defiance, and the look on its face is so adorably fierce, so full of fight, even though Rumlow can see how the soldier had gone trembly and pale as milk at the sight of him....

"The asset is many things," Rumlow agrees. He crosses the room to stand in front of the soldier. "Why don’t we show the good Captain _exactly_ what you’re good for, soldier?"

"Fuck off," the soldier mutters, and then Rumlow's hand strikes out to tangle in the asset’s hair, tilting its head back at an alarming angle.

"That's 'fuck off, Commander,' Rumlow growls. When the soldier fights to throw off his grip, Rumlow whispers the shut-down code, _sputnik_ , only ever mentioned in hushed tones and back rooms, and Rumlow’s not even sure it will work until the soldier’s face--its whole body--goes slack in obeisance. Rumlow releases its hair, now escaping in dark clumps from the elastic that had held it back from its face, and begins fiddling with the code box that will release the clamp.

“Stand,” Rumlow says once the arm has been freed, and the asset pushes up to its feet, gazing at Rogers impassively.

"Strip," Rumlow says, and the asset begins peeling off its tac gear and under layers.

"Bucky?” the Captain barks, and then, to Rumlow, “what’d you do to him?"

Rumlow's lips twitch in a caricature of a smile. "Failsafe. You really should have read the manual on your new toy, Captain."

 

“Get on the table,” he says once the asset has stripped down to nothing. Behind him, Rumlow can hear Rogers cursing and thrashing against his bindings. The asset pauses a moment, seeing that the table is already occupied; glances back at Rumlow in confusion.

Rumlow sighs. To be honest, this is not his favorite flavor of the soldier; he prefers the surge of power he feels by having the tactically savvy, deadly assassin squirming on the end of his cock, not this befuddled and brain-damaged puppy, but whatever. Soon enough they’ll have the soldier fixed up and in fighting form again. It’s just going to take some pretty extensive reconditioning to get there.

“On top of him,” Rumlow says impatiently, and the soldier climbs onto the table, kneeling where Rumlow points, thighs straddling the Captain’s hips. 

“Bucky, no,” Rogers says desperately, and the soldier’s eyes flick to his uncertainly. “It’s me, it’s Stevie, remember? You remember, c’mon, how my shoes were always too big and yours were always too--”

“Shut up,” Rumlow says coldly. He’s not sure how well this trigger is supposed to work, and he doesn't trust the idiot techs who never bothered to update the codeword from the fucking ‘50s--one time while they were waiting for a target to return home, the word had popped up on a fucking home renovation show of all things, and he and Rollins had nearly pissed themselves trying to change the channel, and thank Christ the soldier had been taking a leak at the time--but he doesn’t need Rogers trying to get through to the soldier, needs to shut that shit down.

Besides, listening to Rogers blab about the good ol’ days? Major fucking boner-killer.

He racks the slide on his Glock and tosses it to the soldier. “Put that to your temple and pull the trigger,” he orders, and the asset does it without a second’s hesitation.

“No!” Rogers cries out, jerking against his restraints, as the soldier pulls the trigger.

The chamber snicks hollowly.

The magazine was empty.

Rogers’ eyes are bright, his face blotchy with naked fear, his breaths coming in quick, shallow bursts. The asset continues to kneel on top of Rogers, waiting for a new order, the gun held loosely in its right hand.

Rumlow takes the Glock from the soldier, loads it, and tucks it back into its holster.

“I hear another sound out of you, I’ll give it one that’s loaded. We clear?”

Rogers nods quickly.

“You gonna shut your trap now?” Rumlow presses. Rogers opens his mouth to agree and then snaps it shut again, biting down on his lip.

“Good. ‘Cause we don’t got all day.”

He takes the asset’s living hand and wraps it around their soft cocks. “Get yourself hard, him to, but no coming, got it?”

He waits to see if the asset is tracking well enough to understand this instruction, not sure how much vocab the reset might have stripped away, but after the barest hesitation it begins moving its hand slowly. Rogers looks away, still biting his lip in an effort to keep silent.

“You remember how to get yourself ready?” Rumlow asks, grabbing a tube of slick and squirting some onto the soldier’s metal hand.

Another brief hesitation and then a nod. The asset’s eyes are blank, but there must be some kind of lizard brain in there that remembers how previous reconditionings went. The metal fingers begin prodding at its entrance.

Rogers turns his head to stare at Rumlow, looking like he’s about to lose his stomach contents, and Rumlow realizes that Cap thought _he_ was about to get fucked by the asset, that he had been prepared to be raped by a cybernetic weapon, but couldn’t bear to watch the thing that used to be his friend get taken from behind.

It’s fucking precious is what it is.

Rogers closes his eyes resolutely, fists clenching at his sides, but Rumlow grabs him by the chin, hard, and snaps, “Watch.”

Rogers looks at him then, so much hate in the eyes of America’s golden boy that Brock wants to laugh.

“What, Cap, you thought you got your old buddy back, thought you _fixed_ it? Turned it into a real boy? The Winter Soldier was always ours, and it always will be.”

He presses his own finger inside of the asset, next to the two metal ones currently working it open, testing the stretch. Has no desire to rub the skin off his own dick trying to push his way in, and isn't _that_ something he wishes he hadn’t had to learn the hard way.

“Stop,” he says, redirecting the soldier’s metal hand onto the table next to Rogers’s head before climbing up onto the table, gambling that it will take their combined weight. From what he’s overheard, sticking it to the asset only became SOP in its reconditioning sometime in the '80s--probably when Pierce started rising in the ranks, that sick son of a bitch--and after that most new asset containment cells were built with heavy-duty restraints that could be easily repositioned and exam tables that could probably withstand the weight of a dead elephant. But this decrepit old dump? Looks like it was built 50 years ago and maintained on a shoestring.

The table doesn’t even creak at his additional weight though. Good old Hydra engineering, Rumlow thinks as he pushes the soldier’s face down into Rogers’ neck and unzips his black pants.  


Rumlow shoves his thick thumbs into the soldier’s slick entrance, watching as fine tremors run down the soldier’s back. Fear or arousal, Rumlow can’t tell and doesn’t really care.

He smirks at Rogers as he pushes the head of his cock in, Rogers’s lip going bloody at his effort not to shout at him to stop, to shout at the soldier to snap out of it.

“Goddamn it’s tight, you ain’t been using it right, Cap,” Rumlow says. “The soldier needs a good fucking every so often, didn’t you know that? Part of its routine maintenance.” Rogers’s eyes flash with barely controlled fury.

He pushes in deeper and the soldier gives a little mewl of pain.

“Always was so fucking tight, no matter what we did to it,” Rumlow sighs. “Always felt like the first goddamn time.” 

He eases most of the way out and then pushes in further, grunting in pleasure as the soldier’s body welcomes him home.

Jesus, he forgot how good this could feel, fucking one of the scariest motherfuckers on earth until it was just a trembling pile of flesh. He watches with interest as his cock glides in and out, spearing the perfectly round globes of the soldier’s ass. He glances up to see Cap glowering at him, and he winks.

“Ah, unclench, Cap,” he says, closing his eyes momentarily as the sensations of slick-hot-tight wash over him. “I’m not such a bad guy. Might even let it come.”

He grasps the soldier’s hips in a bruising grip as he finds his rhythm, a punishing pace that punches soft gasps of air from the asset’s lungs.

“Tell him, soldier, tell the Captain how much you love this.”

“I…” the soldier falters as Rumlow gives a particularly vicious snap of his hips. “I love this.”

“Tell him you were made for this.”

“I was... made for this?” the soldier whispers against Rogers’s neck.

“Goddamn right you were,” Rumlow mutters. His hip bones slap against the soldier’s bare ass, the smacking sounds of flesh on flesh echoing loud in the empty sick bay.

He wraps an arm around the soldier’s chest, hauls him up so the soldier’s broad back is flush against him, so Captain Fucking America can see exactly what his pet soldier looks like when it’s being fucked good and hard. He grinds his chin into the soldier’s right shoulder, glances down its body to see the soldier’s cock hard and red, dripping at the tip.

Rogers, though, that goody-fucking-two-shoes, is barely chubby. “Keep stroking him,” Rumlow orders, and the soldier shifts his grip.

“Tell him,” Rumlow rasps, his breath coming short and hard as he fucks the asset. “Tell him how much you need this, soldier.”

“I need…” the soldier says, but then he seems to lose the thread of his thoughts and trails off. Rumlow’s too far gone to care, fucks up into him fast and deep, balls tight, gut coiling with heat, and then far too soon he’s shooting his load into the soldier.

“Mother of Christ,” he mutters against the soldier's soft, dark hair as he comes. “Goddamn fuck.”

He stays like that a moment longer, aftershocks coursing through his body, before he pulls out.

On legs of jelly Rumlow slips off the table, raises an eyebrow at Rogers’s cock, still barely at half mast.

“You have about thirty seconds to get hard, Rogers,” he says as he tucks himself in and zips up. “‘Cause the soldier’s not done getting fucked yet, and if you’re not up to it? I’m using the taser rod.”  


Rogers closes his eyes and thinks of England, or maybe that English tail he’d been chasing during the war, but whatever, it’s working. The soldier is still stroking Cap’s dick and it’s slowly filling, thickening. When Rumlow judges that he’s hard enough to get the job done, he rips the elastic band from the soldier’s hair and wraps it around Rogers’s balls, tight enough to keep him hard but not so tight he can’t shoot his load.

“Sit on his dick,” Rumlow tells the soldier. 

The soldier crawls further up Roger’s body until he’s seated on the Cap’s lap, and Rumlow rolls his eyes.

“ _On_ his dick, soldier. Ride him.”

That at least seems to be a command the soldier remembers, and Rumlow watches with amusement as the thing that used to be Bucky Barnes takes Rogers’s cock in hand, lines it up, and slides down until Rogers is buried in him to the hilt.

“Nnn…” Rogers starts unhappily, and then his eyes fly open in panic and he bites off his protest quickly. Lips are gonna look like hamburger before he fills up the soldier with his super-cum, by the looks of things.

“Play with your nipples,” Rumlow says, and the soldier’s fingers rise up to tease the taut flesh of its nipples.

Rumlow moves around to the head of the table, thumbing absently at Rogers’s own nipples as the soldier rises up on trembling thighs and then drops back down onto Rogers’s cock again and again.

“Isn’t that a pretty sight, Cap?” Rumlow says. “You wouldn’t believe how much Hydra dick that thing could take before it would start crying and begging.”

Rogers looked like _he_ might be ready to cry or beg, and Rumlow snorts. “Not like it’s people, Cap. Just a warm, wet wind-up soldier.”

The asset’s breathing grows harsh as it wriggles on the end of Cap’s cock, and Rumlow reaches a hand out to fist its dick once, twice, before the asset is shooting all over Cap’s chest.

“See, told you I’m not such a bad guy,” Rumlow says. “I mean, Secretary Pierce locked up its junk from about ‘05 to 2010 just for looking at him wrong.” Ah, Pierce, God rest his soul.

Rogers’s mouth twists in disgust, the prissy little bitch, but goddamn that had been hot, images Rumlow’s not ashamed to admit he still jerks it to--watching the asset take it from both ends while its useless, bound cock dribbled helplessly on the tiles below.

Christ, if only he were a few years younger. He would have enjoyed sticking it to Captain Toothpaste Commercial a time or two as well. Although, if the scientists have their way….

“You need to finish, now,” Rumlow growls, fisting Rogers’s hair roughly. Rogers nods, face going slack as he gazes up at the coils of ductwork that wind around the ceiling. His hips buck up into the asset, actively participating for the first time, each thrust pushing gasps of air from the soldier’s lungs. 

Then Rogers’s whole body goes stiff and he makes a strangled sound before going limp in his bonds.

Rumlow raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. This is as why money shots are so useful.

“Did he come in you?” he asks the soldier.

“Yes.”

“Good. Get off him, get dressed. We’re moving out.”

The soldier eases off of Rogers and makes its way to the pile of discarded tac gear on shaking legs.

“Might as well join up with Hydra, Cap,” Rumlow says, pinching Rogers’s nipple between his fingernails until white crescents appear on the tender pink flesh. “No better than the rest of us, wetting your dick in the asset’s hole.”

The look on his face is priceless, outrage and indignation followed by a healthy dose of guilt.

Rumlow wishes he could put a bullet through Cap’s brain, knows he's maybe looking forward to a whole lot of days of looking over his shoulder as he runs from Cap’s wrath, but the higher-ups had been adamant that he should leave Rogers to the scientists if the opportunity arose for reconditioning. From the grim set of Cap’s jaw and the hatred flashing in his eyes, Rumlow’s going to need a good head start, because he doesn’t trust the science division for shit.

“Let’s roll,” Rumlow snaps, and the soldier falls in line behind him, casting one sorrowful glance over its shoulder as they exit the room.

“The man on the table, who was he?” the soldier asks quietly.

Rumlow sighs. Deja vu all over again. Definitely time to get it back into the chair before it starts getting more _ideas_.

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment,” Rumlow says in his best Pierce imitation as he leads the soldier through the glazed-green corridors and out onto the sunny tarmac.

To the future.


End file.
